


(recommended at the price)

by slashsailing



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, First Kiss, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Graphic Violence, Romantic Friendship, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's not exactly happy to be a prostitute but he's fairly content with his lot in life; that is until he meets a young medical student with warm hazel eyes at a noodle bar in Chinatown and may or may not fall in love.  It's not going to be easy, but nothing ever is for Jim Kirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(recommended at the price)

**Author's Note:**

> As always with these longer fics, a huge thank you for Heather for giving it the once over and making sure my strange English colloquialisms didn't sneak into San Francisco! She's a doll.

Jim’s been in the game since he was fourteen. It’s crude, sure, and probably cruel on a lot of levels too. But it’s not as if he’s had much of a choice in his life. Father: dead before he was born; mother: dead not five years later. He and his brother bumped from foster home to foster home until Sam had the great idea of running away at sixteen. Jim had only just turned thirteen; he tried to run with Sam, but he was just a kid. He couldn’t keep up, couldn’t be brave like Sam needed him to be. So while Sam kept on running Jim fell down the rabbit hole and into a new life.

Initially it was a just a full belly and a warm bed but the _Narada_ soon became his home. They took him in when he had no one left. But the bed soon turned too warm with the press of another’s body against his, coaxing his legs open and whispering dirty words he couldn’t yet grasp the meaning of into his ear; introducing him to the bite of pain with disregard for pleasure and teaching him the importance of condoms before giving a thought to science or maths or anything else a fourteen year old boy _should_ be learning.

Jim’s eighteen now and he gets it. He was a pretty young thing with huge blue eyes full of trust and a need to please. A need to please to be praised and a need for the recognition and attention he never received from his flying visits with various foster families. He gets that some men are pretty sick and enjoy their lovers young and vulnerable. They enjoy the weakness in still developing limbs and the absence of public hair. He gets that he’s been used. But it’s too late now. He’s in the game. In deep.

It’s the only life he knows how to live and he’s gotten pretty damn good at it. _Teach ‘em young_ , he thinks. It’s pretty much Nero’s calling card.

Nero: drug-dealing pimp extraordinaire who still hasn’t managed to make it big. 

Jim’s free to leave whenever he likes, Nero doesn’t care. Jim’s getting close to his expiry date now anyway. But then Jim’ll be out on his own again; maybe he’ll have to stand on street corners and he’s not sure he likes the sound of that.

So Jim begins to throw himself on Nero’s mercy; lets the regulars leave hickie marks on his neck or fuck him bareback so Nero can bump up the price. He invites Nero into his bed and agrees to let him offer Jim out to particularly valuable clients when his drug deals go well.

Jim’s eighteen and he’s exhausted. Not just from the sex; it’s having to keep up this charismatic, happy-go-lucky act, it’s having to smile like some golden-haired goddess when mostly he just wants to curl up in the semen-sodden sheets and sleep for a week.

He gets Tuesdays off. Or at least the first half of Tuesday; Jim is trying to keep busy after all. He heads into China Town and throws himself into the corner booth of a noodle bar down some back alley where he hopes he can just spend an hour not thinking about anything and reading what pages are left from the tattered paper back he’d bought from a second hand store last month with what meagre money he makes. He saves most of it. Not in a bank account of course; no, it’s in a duffle bag under his clothes in a trunk in the wardrobe of his locked single room. The _Narada_ might be home, but that doesn’t mean Jim has to trust them. He takes twenty percent of whatever he earns for Nero, saves eighty percent of that and lives on the twenty percent that leaves him with. He doesn’t have to pay Nero rent, but he has to feed himself and entertain himself and books have become his refuge.

He might have dropped out of school of thirteen, but that doesn’t mean Jim isn’t smart. It just means he’s had to teach himself a lot of stuff and that it’s taken longer because his learning has been intercut by men and women wanting to fuck him.

The paper back he’s clinging to at this moment is about Aristotelian philosophy; it doesn’t help him make much sense of _his_ world, but he can see why it would be an interesting college course.

The restaurant is empty at this time of the day; it’s not even noon yet and so it’s understandable. What kind of lunatic comes to eat noodles at 10:43 in the morning? Jim doesn’t count, of course; this is the only time he’s allowed out. He’s a prostitute; he has other things to be doing when the rest of the world is at their leisure to eat noodles.

So the entrance of another patron startles Jim. Until he looks up and sees a dark haired man in the top half of pale-blue scrubs and assumes _night shift doctor_. That makes sense, which means Jim can return to his own noodles without worrying he’s in the presence of a maniac.

The man turns in Jim’s direction and looks at him in confusion for a couple of seconds. Jim feels like an intruder, like he shouldn’t be there. He wonders if this guy knows what he is; maybe he’s a client. Although Jim thinks he’d remember a guy like that. Broad shoulders and a narrow waist, tanned forearms that look strong and muscled and his thighs are _gorgeous_. No, Jim’s never seen this guy before. Certainly hasn’t been paid to fuck him.

Jim realises he’s probably sitting in the guy’s seat. If he usually comes here at 11am when it’s empty maybe he shuts himself up into the corner too. But Jim’s there now, in his faded jeans and a t-shirt that used to be white but now looks grey.

The guy takes a seat in the other corner and begins eating his noodles. He eats carefully, using chopsticks deftly and with a finesse Jim can’t even manage with a fork.

“Why’re you starin’ at me, kid?” the guy asks, a shock of sound in the otherwise quiet room where only the sound of boiling water and the sizzle of a frying pan create any kind of ambiance.

“You stared at me first,” Jim counters.

“There ain’t usually anyone in here,” the guy continues, “I was confused.”

“You come here,” Jim notes, “food can’t be that bad.”

“No,” the guys agrees, “it’s pretty good, but who eats noodles at 11am?”

“Who indeed,” Jim grins.

The guy snorts out a little sound of amusement and shakes his head, “I haven’t eaten in, like, sixteen hours, I’m entitled to noodles.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Doing my residency,” he corrects.

“A baby doctor then,” he smiles.

The guy looks at him for a moment before smiling back, something like intrigue in his hazel eyes, glossy from the long shift and lack of sleep. “I guess so,” he says.

They share a companionable silence. Jim finishes his noodles and picks up his book, rereading over a passage and taking the pencil out of his jean pocket. It’s old and his teeth marks are indented at the blunt end. It’s been sharpened a lot as well; it’s only about two inches in length. He marks a paragraph with a little star, something about creating a Golden Mean, about doing thing in moderation to act virtuously. Jim thinks he could learn something from that – he’ll probably need to research it further.

“Whatcha reading?” the guy asks, some hint of the South in his accent but Jim couldn’t say where.

“Aristotle,” Jim says, lifting his hand in the guy’s direction to show him the book cover.

“For college?” he asks.

“Excuse me?” Jim counters, confused.

“The Aristotle reading,” the guy prompts with an amused look, “is it for college?”

“Oh,” Jim frowns, “ah, yeah.”

“What year’re you in?”

“I’m a freshman,” Jim says, “and he has no idea where these lies are coming from but they’re out there now and he can’t take them back and maybe that’s okay because he’s never going to see this guy again so what’s the harm in pretending for a while.

“I avoided philosophy like the plague, majored in biochem,” the guy explains.

“And then you went off to Med-school,” Jim continues, “do you know what you wanna specialise in?”

“Neurology maybe, or orthopaedics.”

“Wow,” Jim says, genuinely impressed.

“You know what you wanna major in yet?” the guy asks.

“Ah,” Jim thinks about it, what would he want to major in? He has to remind himself he hasn’t actually taken any of the courses and so of course he doesn’t know what he would hypothetically major in for his imaginary degree course. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Early days yet,” the guy shrugs and Jim wonders again where the accent places him.

“Jim Kirk,” he introduces.

“McCoy, Leonard McCoy.”

“Where’re you from Leonard McCoy,” Jim asks, smiling. It’s coquettish; he can feel the pull of a flirt tugging at the corner of his lips. But he can’t help it. He’s a prostitute for God’s sake, he’s been pulling this smile for the last four years; it might be the only one he has left.

“Georgia,” Leonard replies, eyes seeming to soften. “You don’t sound Californian either,” he notes.

“I was born in Iowa,” Jim says, “moved here for college.”

“That makes sense,” Leonard nods, “you going to USF?”

“Berkley,” Jim lies, because he can and because if he’s going to lie he might as well make it worthwhile.

“This is a bit of a trek then,” Leonard scoffs, “just for noodles.”

“I have a friend who lives a few blocks away, stayed at theirs last night,” Jim shrugs.

“Had to make a quick exit?” Leonard wonders, glancing at the clock.

“I was hungry, they didn’t have anything in,” Jim counters, somewhat sharply; because if there’s one thing he can do with this lie, it’s that he can get as far away from sex as possible. He can carve himself out the shell of a normal life where he reads his college material and does his assignments and isn’t involved with a pimp who sells coke to lowlifes on the streets of downtown San Francisco.

“Sorry,” Leonard says, looking honestly abashed, “I was just kidding… We’re both University of California people though, I just finished at UCSF, I’m working at San Fran Medical Centre now,” he continues, trying, it seems, to get them back on track. Back on neutral ground.

Jim likes Leonard but it’s eleven o’clock now and he has to be back at the _Narada_ for twelve.

“Maybe I’ll see you around then,” Jim says gently, picking up his carton and heading to the trash.

“Maybe I’ll see you here tomorrow, when I finish my shift at about the same time,” Leonard suggests, looking more timid than he did a few moment ago.

“I have class tomorrow,” Jim lies. But he can’t take the disheartened look creeping into those hazel eyes. He’s always been a sucker for the tall, dark and handsome type. Leonard McCoy’s a gentleman too – just Jim’s luck. “But I could be around Thursday, if you were around.”

Leonard smiles then and pulls something out of his wallet - it’s a blank sheet of paper – he holds his hand out for Jim’s pencil and scribbles down what looks like a cell-phone number. Not that Jim has a cell-phone. Who would he call?

“Just, ah, call me if Thursday doesn’t end up working out,” Leonard shrugs.

“I will,” Jim promises; and it’s strange because… he thinks he might mean it.

“See y’around, Jim.”

“Yeah,” Jim breathes, slipping the number in between the pages his book, “see you.”

#

When Jim gets back to the _Narada_ , he doesn’t tell Pavel or Gaila, or even Nyota, about meeting a handsome doctor at a noodle bar in China Town. He just goes to one of the empty _entertaining_ rooms and waits until Nero sends a client into him. The man who strides in not even twenty minutes later is tall man, too tall for his slender frame. Jim wonders if you’d be able to see him at all from the side. He’s good looking though, which is rather uncommon in Jim’s line of work. He’s tanned and has a mop of artfully skewed strawberry blonde hair. He wonders which is fake, the pastel orange mane or the bronzed skin. The man has freckles on his chest so Jim’s inclined to think it’s probably the tan. But who knows; Jim’s long since learnt to expect the unexpected.

Like how this guy makes Jim call him Daddy; case in point.

It doesn’t last long though. The guy’s almost manic, talking to Jim like they’ve been lovers for years. Jim’s almost inclined to prefer the clients that grunt and pant and make his skin crawl with their overgrown back hair and their clammy hands. At least Jim can remember his place then, just the hooker doing what he’s paid for. Hearing endearments like ‘honey’ and ‘baby boy’ make him feel sick. Sure, this guy’s about thirty. But no matter how much Jim says it, this guy’s never going to be old enough to be Jim’s _Daddy_. The act sets his stomach on edge. So he’s glad that the guy comes quickly and is embarrassed enough about his sexual appetites to make a sharpish exit.

“You’ve never called me Daddy,” Nero says with a smirk when Jim’s sucking his cock that evening. _Ah yes,_ Jim thinks, _the cameras_. Nero’s always watching. It’s something that used to make Jim nervous, now though, he tries to use it to his advantage. Sometimes, like today, when the John is particularly unnerving, he forgets entirely. “Made him pay extra for it,” Nero whispers, holding Jim’s head in place and thrusting his hips forward.

He throws the twenty dollar bill at Jim like it’s nothing. Like Jim’s nothing.

And, for the first time in his life, Jim _feels_ like nothing. He feels dirty. _Filthy._ Like a stray dog with matted fur and a broken paw in need of a good bath.

Jim can handle _whore_ and _slut_ from the clients. It’s part of the game. And anyway, Jim’s the one left laughing when they’re paying Nero with money they’ve taken from their children’s college fund just for the right to touch him.

Paying _Nero_.

Jim’s eighteen now and he finally gets it. He’s Nero’s property. He can’t leave whenever he wants because he has about twelve-hundred dollars to his name and that wouldn’t last five minutes in a city like San Francisco. He’s under Nero’s thumb until Nero _decides_ Jim’s not worth taking up one of his beds anymore and is discarded like an unwanted VHS tape, traded in for a piece of shiny new technology.

Jim’s eighteen and he’s already damaged goods.

#

“You’re heading out early,” Nyota says, looking at the clock above the stove; it’s 9:54. The setup of the _Narada_ is quite simple. It operates very much by word of mouth. People knock, they’re let in by one of Nero’s associates, usually a burly man called Ayel. They have a little chat with Nero and they’re sent to the lower ground floor where there are four dingy double rooms, sparse and dimly lit. On the first floor is an entrance hall, where Nero sits drinking coffee until his teeth yellow, smoking cigars like the King of an exotic island. But there’s a selection of back rooms where Jim and his _colleagues_ have the luxury of a kitchen and sitting room. On the next floor up is Jim’s single bedroom. Gaila and Nyota share the room next to his and the rest of Nero’s employees spend their time between the spare bedroom and whoever’s bed they happen to be bought into. The attic room is Nero’s and Jim’s only allowed up there when he’s invited.

“I’m not on until one,” Jim says, “I need to get out of here.”

“Buying more books?” Nyota wonders.

“And some toiletries,” Jim grins, “you want anything?”

“Get some of that strawberry foam wash,” she nods, “I’ll go halves with you.”

“Don’t worry about it; I like the mandarin stuff anyway. I think it’s still two for one,” Jim explains.

“Bring Gaila back some of that green polish you found last time,” Nyota adds. “Maybe invest in a couple of new t-shirts,” she suggests, “you’re shoulders are about fit to burst out of that one.”

“It’s loose!” Jim counters.

“Only around the hem and that’s only because it’s about two years old,” Nyota states. She makes a good point too; all of Jim’s clothes are ill fitting because he’s been going through puberty and has been only able to buy new clothes in fits and starts.

“Alright,” Jim huffs, holding his hands up. “Jeez, I’ll buy some new clothes.”

“Do you need money?”

“No, I have money,” Jim scoffs, “working for a living aren’t I?” he snorts, glancing around at their grotty kitchen.

He leaves soon after, making his way down to the little noodle bar in China town just like he’d told Leonard he would. It’s quite a bright morning, for San Francisco anyway – the October fog mostly cleared; the sky unusually blue. It’s the sort of weather that makes a person smile _just because_ , it’s the sort of whether that foretells a good day to come.

“Jim,” Leonard is already there eating noodles in the corner where Jim sat two days ago, “I thought you might not come.”

“Of course I was gonna come,” Jim counters, ordering some egg fried rice, duck spring rolls and some sweet and sour chicken, before turning to sit opposite Leonard. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Leonard isn’t wearing his scrub top this morning; he’s just in a sweatshirt and some light denim jeans. He looks good, Jim thinks; healthy. The way men are supposed to look. His skin is the right sort of creamy, sun-kissed over the bridge of his nose and cheeks, his eyes look bright. They’re almond shaped with irises that look more green than brown today.

“Well I’m glad you did,” Leonard says, “how were your classes yesterday?”

It’s such an innocent question, a polite opener. But it feels like Leonard’s trying to trap Jim, like he knows Jim is lying and he’s trying to catch him out.

“Good,” Jim smiles tightly, “ah, an astronomy lecture and then the seminar, and a philosophy tutorial.”

“Astronomy, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jim nods, “I like the stars,” at least that’s true.

Leonard deigns him with a soft look and a faintly amused smile.

“How was work?” Jim asks, trying to move the focus from his fake college career.

“Long,” Leonard sighs, rubbing his temple with the index and middle fingers of one hand, “but it’s worth it.”

“I’d like to have a job like that,” Jim says, voice quiet. “I’d like to make a difference.”

“With your big Berkley degree? I’m sure you will,” Leonard counters, knocking his shoulder into Jim’s who has to force out a clipped laugh.

“Yeah,” Jim sighs, “yeah maybe.”

“’re you okay, Jim?”

Jim nods, “of course I am, just tired I guess… assignments and stuff.”

“They’re startin’ you off early, huh?”

“Two months in and it’s already killing my brain,” Jim jokes.

“You’ll get used to it,” Leonard assures him.

They chatter innocently for as long as they can make their cartons of Chinese food last. Jim’s rice is tepid by the time he gets to the bottom of it but it’s worth it to hear Leonard talk about his little house in Georgia and the antics of the other medical students he’s working alongside. Jim tells Leonard about Gaila and Nyota as if they’re fellow students rather than fellow prostitutes; he’s vague about the classes they share but he tells Leonard all about the time that he and Gaila got drunk and he let her put eyeliner along his top waterline and rouge on his cheeks and they danced to Whitney Houston until they woke up in a pizza parlour in the Castro.

“Gaila your girlfriend?” Leonard questions, not very casually. He’s blushing, actually, but Jim thinks it’s kind of endearing.

“No,” Jim shakes his head. “I’m young free and cripplingly single,” he grins.

“Oh,” Leonard says, appearing to try and reign in his smile, “look, I have to go soon. I’m meant to be meeting a friend for dinner later but I’m completely beat an’ I’m gonna need at least six hours sleep to even feel human… I know this was a bit of a flying visit but I- I’d like to see you again, Jim.”

“Are you gonna ask me out on a date, or do I have to do all the work?” Jim jibes, enjoying the sudden flare of confidence.

“Let me take you somewhere,” Leonard starts, “not the movies, you can’t talk at the movies but maybe-”

“There’s this awesome ice-cream parlour down by the Bay, they use nitrogen and it looks pretty cool. I haven’t had a chance to go in there yet,” Jim suggests; and by chance he means reason.

“That sounds perfect,” Leonard says. “Why don’t we do it Saturday afternoon? You won’t be in class at least.”

“I ah,” Jim’s mind starts to race, how is he going to avoid weekends, he can’t exactly ask for the day off. Especially not now that he’s trying to endear himself to Nero’s mercy. “I’ve got an assignment due for Sunday that I haven’t nearly started yet. Maybe we could do Tuesday early-ish? I don’t have class on Tuesday.”

“You’re in luck,” Leonard nods, “I’m not on the evening shifts next week so I can do early-ish, say, twelve? Maybe we can head to the observatory after or down to the beach?”

“Yeah,” Jim nods, following Leonard as he stands and heads to put his carton in the trash. “I’d like that, I’ll call you.”

“I’ll see you Tuesday, Jim.”

#

The rest of Thursday passes in a rush to buy everything Nyota’s told him to before heading back for a quick inspection. She thinks his new jeans are awesome and he has to admit he’s excited to see how much Leonard appreciates them now that they hug his ass instead of sagging too low on his hips to actually do Jim’s figure any favours. He doesn’t tell Nyota he’s going on what is, technically, being considered a date on Tuesday, instead he lets Nero manhandle him for a while until a client comes in and fucks Jim in an eerily quiet manner, devoid of any signs of pleasure or arousal. Jim crawls into bed feeling muddied.

Friday’s no better, except he’s working pretty much back to back from eleven until four when he gets a break for an hour to read and paint Gaila’s nails before returning to a room to spend the rest of the evening with the same John who holds Jim’s wrists a little too tightly.

The weekend is busy but the girls seem to be most in demand, not that Jim’s complaining. He spends some money on a notebook to work out his entire cover story for Leonard. He spends an hour in the internet café down the road looking up prospective undergraduate timetables and searching Berkley’s module pages, trying to work out a timetable that he can get away with. The _Narada_ isn’t usually busy before four o’clock during the week; Jim’s been trying to make himself available from about twelve for Nero’s benefit but he doesn’t have to. Nero won’t question Jim’s absence before early evening, or, at least, Jim hopes he won’t.

The weekends will always be an issue because Jim still needs to earn his keep and he can’t just go gallivanting after the first pretty resident that gives him a bit of attention.

Leonard’s more than that though, Jim can feel it even after two twenty minute meetings. Leonard’s like a spark that’s ignited a match long since abandoned inside Jim’s stomach. Jim starts calling Leonard _Bones_ in his head. Leonard is a stuffy name reserved for old men in cable knit cardigans. Bones is much more fitting. Sturdy and necessary, and maybe the only thing holding Jim together.

Just having that thought frightens Jim. He’s never needed anybody. Not even Sam. Certainly not Nero. Not on an emotional level anyway. And sure, Nyota is his best friend and Gaila is like a sister to him but if he needed to walk away he would. If they were to walk away he’d be happy for them, he’d be proud they made a break where he couldn’t. But when Jim sees Bones he gets butterflies.

He’s never had that before.

It’s gentle and innocent.

But it’s a lie. Jim has to remember that.

#

“You look good,” Bones says upon seeing him standing awkwardly outside the store front.

Jim just in a fresh black t-shirt and the new jeans, but he knows he looks better. He feels better – finally wearing clothes that fit him, and smiling because Bones is looking at him like some model on the page of a magazine.

“You scrub up pretty good too, Bones,” Jim says with a grin.

“Bones?”

“You were in dire need of a nickname,” Jim shrugs, “come on,” he adds, pulling Bones into the pastel coloured ice-cream parlour by the elbow. He feels how he imagines children feel at Christmas when they have presents under a well-decorated tree and the promise of chocolate log cake at the end of the day.

“A scoop of Banana,” Bones says slowly, considering the other options, “and a scoop of peach,” he decides.

“I’m thinking chocolate,” Jim grins at the girl behind the counter who laughs as Bones shakes his head, “and probably more chocolate.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a wink, prepping the nitrogen machine and doing whatever it is they do to the cream to make it ice-cream.

“It’s awesome, right?”

“Never was one for physics,” Bones admits, “but yeah, it’s pretty awesome.”

“It’s kinda chemistry though too,” Jim counters, “so there’s that.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Bones smiles, “you think it’ll taste weird?”

“Probably wouldn’t still be here if it did.”

“That’s certainly true,” Bones nods, “so, you gonna explain the nickname?”

“Orthopaedics?” Jim offers, “that’s about the bones right?”

“It’s the musculoskeletal system,” Bones corrects, “but that’d be a pretty shitty nickname.”

“Which was exactly my thinking,” Jim smirks. “So Bones it is.”

“Bones it is,” he agrees tentatively.

“Ooh,” Jim smiles, “ice-cream.”

“And so smart too?” Bones jibes, “my mother would be so proud.”

“Ha ha,” Jim says dryly before taking the proffered ice-cream cone from the server who’s name tag reads _Janice_. “Thanks,” he smiles, moving out of the way so Bones can grab his, although he asks for it in a tub.

“But the cone is awesome,” Jim says. “It’s proper Italian stuff too.”

“I can’t stand wafer,” Bones admits, smiling fondly at Jim, “but I’m sure it’s _awesome_.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Jim pouts, leading Bones to one of the outside tables.

“Did you have class yesterday?” Bones asks.

“Just a physics lecture,” Jim says, “Wednesday and Friday are my busiest days.”

“I’m at the hospital this Friday, Saturday and Sunday; twelve hour shifts too,” Leonard sighs, “I’ve never appreciated sleep so much.”

Jim laughs, thinks about how much he likes the sight of his own bed, especially in comparison to the beds in the rooms of the lower ground floor. “It’ll be worth it in the end though, right?” Jim says, echoing one of Bones’ previous comments.

“It will.”

“Maybe we’ll meet for breakfast Sunday morning? If that doesn’t clash with your shift time,” Jim suggests.

“If you were here about nine, but isn’t it a little early if you have to come down from Berkley?”

“It’s only a thirty minute drive,” Jim points out.

“You drive?”

“Well no, but it only takes me forty-five by transit,” Jim shrugs. “I’m an early riser anyway.”

Talking to Bones is so easy. It flows out of Jim; he admits to being an orphan, while strategically avoiding talk of foster care and his childhood in favour of listening to Bones talk about his instead. He’s an only child but is very interested by the idea of having a brother.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” is all Jim says and he’s pretty sure Bones thinks he’s joking.

They go to a small miniature-aircraft and toy car store a few doors down from the ice-cream parlour and Jim learns that Bones is afraid of flying and has vertigo. Jim explains that he’s never left the country but anything with an engine has always fascinated him. There’s a small TV in the kitchen at the Narada and Jim used to spend an inordinate amount of time watching documentaries about NASA and rally car racing and anything else about driving and flying that he could.  

Jim thinks even if he’d been on thousands of dates this would still be the best one he’d ever been on. Bones looks at him like he matters, and he can only hope that look is mirrored in his own eyes. When Bones asks Jim for his cell number Jim just tells him he’ll call him if anything changes but he promises he’ll meet Bones for breakfast on Sunday. He wouldn’t miss it for the world. And it can’t come soon enough.

#

“Why don’t you come up and see me later,” Nero says, tongue flicking out over his lower lip as he takes in Jim’s frame, cupped beautifully by the new jeans – like a walking temptation. “Hopefully you’ll be loose and raring to go.”

Jim nods, but he feels numb. Nero’s voice has cut into him and he’s bleeding out of the off-white kitchen floor tiles and he could be screaming but no one’s coming. His heart is beating still, just about, but he can’t feel his limbs, his body temperature drops. Everything is in black and white until suddenly it isn’t but it’s all too much, too garish. It makes him want to heave, wretch, and spill the contents of his stomach into the old steel sink. His breathing sounds loud even to him and Nero’s cold dark eyes seem even colder now.

This isn’t just a bit of harmless play. This isn’t fun. This is Jim’s life and the only condition he needs to fulfil to keep things rosy is to be _loose and raring to go_.

Jim’s eighteen and finally gets it.

#

Gaila comes in without knocking; she has her red ringlets pulled into a high pony tail, and her cheeks are flushed, as if she’s been running. Although Jim knows she hasn’t been. Gaila’s a classic beauty, like Rita Heyworth or Marilyn Monroe. She’s buxom, an hourglass figure that makes men cheat on their wives and sell their cars to get a piece – even if it’s only transient. Even if they have to give her back. Gaila’s the kind of woman who should be commanding an office floor somewhere in Wall Street with two point five children and a couple of Pomeranians. But she’s not. She’s a slut like Jim: loose and raring to go.

“You look sad, Jimmy,” she says gently.

“If I tell you something, you promise you won’t tell anyone?” Jim questions, sitting up on his bed so Gaila can take a seat cross-legged beside him.

“Sure, Jim,” she nods, brows furrowing with concern, “what’s wrong?”

“Have you ever… started seeing someone, you know, while you’ve been working here?” Jim asks.

“You mean a John?” Gaila looks incredulous, “God, no.”

“No,” Jim says quickly, “someone from outside, I er-”

“You met someone?” Gaila interrupts, smiling – like a child chasing fireflies, watching them glitter against the pink evening sky.

“Yeah,” Jim nods, feeling pathetic. Whores aren’t supposed to meet people and like people, not the way he likes Bones anyhow. This isn’t _Pretty Woman_.

“Where? When?” She demands excitedly, shuffling in closer.

“At the noodle bar, and ah, two weeks ago today,” Jim replies. “I’m seeing him again Sunday morning for breakfast.”

“ _Him_?” Gaila grins, “is he cute?”

“He’s great,” Jim nods, “he’s gonna be a doctor.”

“I take it he doesn’t know?” she questions, smile fading some.

“I can’t exactly tell him, can I?”

“Not yet anyway,” Gaila agrees, “you haven’t told, Ny?”

“You know what she gets like,” Jim counters.

“She just likes to look out for us,” Gaila says, resting her head on Jim’s shoulder. Gaila’s nineteen, she came to Nero about a year or so after Jim, she’d only just turned sixteen and her parents had kicked her out after finding her in bed with a classmate. They’re an Irish-Brazilian family, religion is a big part of their culture and Gaila just wasn’t the model daughter they’d always hoped for. She was naïve to begin with, more so than Jim. She made up love stories for the clients to excuse them of their sins.

Nyota’s like their mother, though. Even though she’s only just turned nineteen herself. She’s practical and efficient. She doesn’t take any crap from the clients and Nero knows what not to ask of her. She’s picky, but she’s his exotic princess. Her skin like milk chocolate: seducing every glutton in San Francisco. Nyota’s mother gave her to Nero to settle a debt when she was twelve, and although she was very little use to him then, he knows how to play the waiting game and he knew the kind of custom she’d bring to his door.

“I’ll tell her soon,” Jim promises. For now though, he just wants to curl up and sleep. Gaila appears happy enough with that plan. They’ve been working all day and it’s hitting the early hours of Friday morning. They can talk about Bones tomorrow.

#

“You’re so pretty,” the man grunts into the nape of Jim’s neck, hoisting Jim’s hips back more to bury himself in deeper, “so fucking pretty.”

Jim stays silent. On particularly sharp thrusts, though, Jim’s disgusted silence breaks, giving way to pained hisses, and dense panting; it’s the only way to keep himself from crying out until the man finally shudders to his finish.

He calls Jim pretty a few more times before he leaves, giving Jim the distinct impression he’ll be back. Sooner rather than later too.

#

Bones looks flushed and sleepy, his hair mussed. It looks fluffy; Jim decides it would be pretty soft too. Bones probably uses sweet smelling shampoo and the scent, strawberry maybe, or coconut, probably clings to him all day. Jim should probably stop daydreaming about Bones’ hair and focus on their breakfast chitchat. It’s difficult though, because Bones looks so warm and comforting. How can a person look _warm_? Jim questions. But it’s true. Bones is like a summer day, chasing away the cold of Jim’s life and wrapping himself around Jim. Not a stifling heat. It’s breathable; more like the heavy-eyed heat of a body under a bird-feather filled duvet. It’s an inviting warmth, evident in Bones’ eyes and his smile; and Jim finds himself wanting to burrow into it.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” Bones ask, smile growing. He can see right through Jim, Jim’s sure of it. But not to what really matters, Bones can see through the lies. Jim’s keeping those secrets intact.

“I like you, Bones,” Jim says softly. He wishes he could stop wanting to see Bones. But he can’t now, it’s too late; he’s in too deep and he wants the sunshine of Bones’ soft brown eyes. He wants to bask in that easy smile, a smile that asks for nothing in return and gives so much. Freely. This isn’t a transfer, it’s not a business deal. He doesn’t buy Jim or try to own him.

“I like you too,” Bones murmurs, setting his coffee cup down to look at Jim. “I like you a lot.”

“Too much,” Jim whispers, “more than a kid like me deserves.”

“Now why on Earth would y’say that?” Bones questions, still smiling; it’s confused now though, because Bones can’t follow this path of Jim’s mind, doesn’t know what’s down this rabbit hole. His sunshine can’t illuminate that far down. It’s too dark. Too dark.

“You’re a good guy,” Jim says, “I’m just-”

“Is this because I’m older ‘an you?” Bones asks, “s’only six years.”

“It’s because…” Jim sighs, he can’t say it. He’s too selfish. He’s the kid that throws a tantrum because he doesn’t want to leave the seaside. Can’t face going home just yet. “You’re right,” he says, “I’m being ridiculous.”

“Course you are,” Bones grins, leaning across the table to kiss Jim’s cheek. They both blush as Bones pulls back. “Been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits.

“I’m glad you did,” Jim smiles.

“Look, Jim, I’ve gotta run,” Bones sighs, draining his cup, “but we can do something again Tuesday, it’s a good day for you right?”

“Right,” Jim nods, “meet me at about eleven, by Portsmouth Square Plaza.”

“You gonna tell me why?”

“No,” Jim shakes his head, grinning.

“I guess I’ll have to trust you.”

#

_I guess I’ll have to trust you._

Jim feels pretty shitty for the rest of the day. Bones is pure in his estimations of Jim. He kissed Jim on the _cheek_ for Christ’s sake. He respects Jim, and the tentative bond they’ve formed, from strangers to friends maybe, and more. They’re dating, Jim supposes. Although he’s never dated before.

But Jim is _lying_. He can’t be trusted. He doesn’t deserve to be.

How is he meant to take it back though? How is he supposed to make it right? He was never meant to see the brown haired stranger in doctor’s scrubs after that brief meeting in a noodle bar and now look at them. Meeting weekly to go to ice-cream parlours… And now another date. One that Jim had thought would include a park and maybe his little bookstore. But he can’t do that now. He just can’t.

Bones deserves more. Better.

Jim has _nothing_ to offer him. Nothing Bones couldn’t buy at any one of the trashy little whorehouses up and down San Francisco, anyway.

He should call.

He does. The phone rings. Bones answers.

“Hello?”

Jim can’t. He just can’t.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Jim hangs up.

#

Jim ends up staying in bed until two in the afternoon on Tuesday. Custom is slow and he’s got no reason to bother going out now that he’s royally messed up his chance with Bones. He regrets it; not seeing Bones, not calling to cancel properly, not hearing his voice one last time and maybe getting the chance to explain himself. But it was the right thing to do. To let Bones go. And to let him hate Jim for doing it the way he did.

He’s in the kitchen eating cereal at about half four when the phone rings; he stands up and grabs it from the wall, hooking the cord around his fingers.

“Hello,” Jim starts, “Na-”

“Jim?”

Suffice to say Jim nearly chokes on his tongue.

“ _Bones_?”

“I thought it was you,” Bones starts, “when I got that call the other day. But I thought maybe… I don’t know what I thought. That you were calling to say hi, or that you were nervous or bored or… I don’t know goddamned _hungry_ and just wanted a chat. I should have guessed you were cancelling. Didn’t take you for a coward, kid.”

“Jim, honey,” Gaila is calling from the stairs, “you need to come up and get ready.”

“I can’t talk right now,” he tells Bones, “you can’t call me on this number.”

“Well it worked this time, didn’t it?”

“Please, Bones…”

“Don’t call me that,” Bones huffs, “I don’t take nicknames from assholes.”

“I got busy,” Jim lies, “an assignment, I forgot, I-”

“You could have called. Jesus, you _did_ call, all you had to do was stay on the line,” Bones huffs, “I was walking ‘round that damn park like an idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispers.

“Jim!” Gaila calls.

“I’m sorry,” Jim repeats, “I’ve gotta go.”

“No, Jim-”                              

“I’m sorry.”

#

Nyota looks furious when Jim pads back into the kitchen a few hours later. He grabs half an abandoned bagel - chocolate spread, it’s probably Pavel’s – and sits opposite her.

“Someone named Leonard called,” she says slowly, “he asked for you.”

“What did you say?” Jim asks, scared and helpless. There’s no point trying to make up some lie to pacify Nyota, she’s too clever and he’s already wound himself in a web of lies and look how well that’s worked for him.

“He asked if you were around, said he knew you didn’t have class on Tuesdays and he really needed to talk to you,” Nyota relays, “wondered if I was Gaila, and when I told him my name was Nyota he asked if we shared a dorm.”

“I’m kind of dating him,” Jim admits.

“I kind of realised,” she mimics pointedly. “You could have told me, you know.”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Jim admits, “you’re the practical one, the smart one… this isn’t smart, is it? I thought you’d be angry.”

“I’m only angry that you lied to me,” Nyota says, “and to him. And by the sounds of it he’s pretty gone on you, Jim, and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. I told him you were stressing out about college. I lied for you.”

“Thank you,” Jim whispers.

“Don’t cry,” she says softly, “because I’ll cry and I’m running low on mascara as it is.”

“You don’t need mascara,” Jim says, letting her take his hand, squeezing.

“He likes you a lot, Jim,” Nyota says.

“Not enough to look past me being a prostitute though,” Jim scoffs, “haven’t even known him a month.”

“Not everyone looks at us and only sees our occupation,” Nyota says, “you’re more than that Jim, we all are.”

“He’s a doctor,” Jim says, “or training for it. What could I give him?”

“He must see something in you,” she smiles, “he called, didn’t he?”

“I really like him, Ny,” Jim admits, “I just- I don’t wanna screw up. Or screw him up. It’s not fair.”

“You should call him,” Nyota says, “ask to take him out, and tell him everything. Maybe he’ll understand, and if he doesn’t it was probably never gonna work anyway.”

“I’ve never felt like this before, Ny, I’m scared,” Jim whispers, setting his forehead onto the table. He feels her hand run through his hair, scratching his scalp. She’s right. He needs to call Bones and tell him everything.

 

#

 

“I need to take Friday off,” Jim says, “I’ve got an appointment at the clinic.”

Nero looks at him and frowns. “You caught something?”

“I don’t know,” Jim shrugs, “that’s why I’m getting checked out.”

“For the whole of Friday?”

“The free clinic isn’t open until four,” Jim says, “I could be waiting for hours. I don’t wanna say I’ll be back early if I won’t.”

“If you’ve caught something I’m not paying to have you fixed,” Nero huffs.

“Wouldn’t expect it,” Jim mutters.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Nero warns, pulling Jim closer by his forearm, leaning in to bite Jim’s cheek, sucking a hickie into the skin. Jim resists pulling away. He’s already walking on thin ice with Nero, he doesn’t need to make things worse. “I gave you a roof over your head when you were just a kid with nothing else, remember that, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim sighs. “I do, thank you.”

“Off you go,” Nero says quietly, slapping Jim’s ass cheek on his way out, “and just in case you have got something, make the guys use a rubber; can’t risk ‘em starting something or calling the cops on us.”

 _Right_ , Jim thinks, _now he wants them to wear condoms_.

#

“Bones?”

“Hey,” Bones says softly, his voice rough, accent curling more than usual.

“You’re in bed,” Jim realises, feeling dumb and guilty in equal measure. “Sorry, I can call back later, I just-”

“’m awake now,” Bones murmurs, “what’s wrong, kid?”

“I wanna see you,” Jim says, pulling the phone cord until he’s on the floor, back leant against the wall of the kitchen. “I was stupid the other day; I want to make it up to you.”

“I’m busy Tuesday morning,” Bones says.

“What about this Friday, I’m free the whole day.”

“Makes a change,” Bones scoffs, and Jim can imagine the little upturn to his lips.

“Maybe we can go for coffee, just coffee, and I can explain stuff,” Jim suggests.

“Maybe I’ll be _The Coffee Shop_ on the corner of Taylor and O’Farrell at like… half one,” Bones murmurs, and Jim can hear the shifting of material, “maybe.”

“It’s more than I deserve,” Jim acknowledges, failing to contain his grin, “but I can work with maybe.”

“More than maybe,” Bones finishes, “but I gotta sleep now, so, ah, night Jim.”

Jim laughs, mimics Bones’ goodbye and cuts the line.

#

Gaila and Nyota try and coach Jim on possible ways he can come clean to Bones. Ultimately though, Jim thinks, it’ll happen how it happens and no amount of practice is going to make it any easier or make it go any more successfully.

Doesn’t mean his heart isn’t racing as he walks along the streets to his destination. The café is a nice one, the likes of which Jim’s never been to. Or maybe he has, once, back in Iowa when he was eleven, with a foster family who were the physical incarnation of the American dream. They were safe and secure and they had dinner parties and bought Jim shortbread biscuits when he did well on a test. It’s a vague memory though.

And Jim hasn’t done well on a test in a really long time.

“You came,” Bones notes upon seeing him, his hands are cradling a ceramic mug; it looks dainty in the huge span of his palms, almost entirely enveloped. Jim thinks about tanned hands on his pale body. “Nice love bite,” he adds, and Jim winces, his finger scramble towards the skin, covering the evidence but not his embarrassment.

“I was drunk,” Jim lies, “it didn’t go any further.”

“I wish I could say I don’t care,” Bones admits, looking glum; he’s grey now, not bright yellow sunshine, “at least the coffee is good.”

“I’m not thirsty,” Jim says, bypassing the counter to sit on the chair opposite Bones.

Jim’s the cluster of clouds that blocks Bones’ light from the world. The realisation is uncomfortably painful.

“I lied the other day, I’ve been lying a lot,” Jim admits. “You’re right, though, I am a coward.”

“Why don’t you start with the truth,” Bones suggests gently, “and we can decide later whether you’re a coward or not. I was angry when I said that before. I don’t think I was right.”

“You were.”

“Well, I’d like a chance to reconsider,” Bones counters, gesturing for Jim to continue.

“I’m not a student a Berkley, or a student at all for that matter,” Jim admits, “but you saw me reading that book and you assumed and I didn’t think I’d ever see you again and so I just… I agreed, I let you think what you wanted to think. Think better of me. I thought I could play make believe, that it wouldn’t matter because you were just a stranger. But you’re not anymore. You’re Bones and I lied to you and when I think about it it makes me sick.”

“Why would I need to think better of you, Jim?” Bones questions, “I don’t care if you’re a student or you sell dog collars for a living; you’re you and I like you.”

“I don’t sell dog collars for a living,” is all Jim says.

“I don’t care,” Bones repeats.

“You would,” Jim states, “if you knew you would.”

“So tell me,” Bones prompts, “try me, if you’re so convinced.”

“I can’t,” Jim says, “but I can walk away now and you won’t have to think badly of me.”

“I think you have that ‘round the wrong way,” Bones says, “if you walk out now I’ll be pretty mad,” he continues with a snort, “this coffee isn’t actually all that great.”

“How can you be so normal about this?” Jim demands.

“Because so far all I know is that you’re not a student and you don’t sell dog collars,” Bones snaps, huffing and pushing away his cup. “But I do know that you make me laugh, and you’re smart; you know about the most random things but you make it mean something. I know that I think about your eyes when I should be thinking about how much medication to prescribe. I know I’m in way too deep for meeting you a grand total of four times.”

“I’m a prostitute,” Jim whispers, so quiet it’s barely audible. He can feel his heart begin to pound, his stomach drop. It’s like his organs synchronise some sort of terrified dance inside him. His hands shake.

Jim’s voice is quiet but Bones hears him. Dark eyes, _darkening_ maybe, look at him. The stare is intent and confused.

“Oh,” is all the Southerner is able to manage.

“Right,” Jim nods, “oh.”

Bones doesn’t say anything else.

“Still don’t care?” Jim asks, he doesn’t mean it to sound as nasty as it does but he knew this would happen and it makes him bitter and resentful. Proven right once again.

“I’m just taking it in,” Bones counters with a frown, “are you safe?” he wonders.

“Am I clean, you mean?” Jim corrects, scoffing, “I’m meant to be at the clinic now for a check-up.”

“Get up then,” Bones says, standing; his movements are sharp and full of urgency.

“What?”

“ _Get up_ ,” he repeats, even more severe than before.

Jim stands and let Bones guide him out of the café, “where are we going?”

“To a clinic,” Bones says, “I can’t believe you’d even… I mean, you must know. In your li-” Bones stops himself, frowning.

“In my line of work,” Jim finishes, trying not to laugh at the sheer bizarreness of this whole situation, “is that what you were going to say?”

“You’re meant to stay safe,” Bones says.

“For who?” Jim demands, voice spiteful; sardonic.

“For _you_.”

Bones all but marches Jim to the little clinic a few blocks away. It’s embarrassing; Jim feels like he’s waiting outside the principal’s office with his overbearing mother while he waits to see the clinician. He doesn’t worry that they’ll be positive. Not really. He doesn’t bareback often. It’s only been a recent habit anyway. It won’t happen to him. Not in the six weeks since Nyota last made them all get checked out.

He’s gives a blood sample, urine sample and a saliva sample and is told his results can be emailed or texted over to him in a week’s time.

“Can I come in and collect them?” he wonders.

“Of course, we can have them back here in five days,” the nurse, her badge reads Christine, says.

“Thank you.”

“We need to talk about this, Jim,” Bones says the minute they get back out onto the street.

“Not the fourth date you had in mind, huh?” Jim scoffs.

“No,” Bones states, “it wasn’t. You’re a hooker and you never told me and now I have feelings for you and frankly I’m pissed off because you clearly don’t look after yourself and you obviously don’t care about me-”

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t care about,” Jim huffs, “you don’t know me.”

“Evidently not,” Bones snaps.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jim sighs, “how could I have told you?”

“You-”

“Tell me you would have stayed if I’d have told you right off the bat,” Jim demands.

Bones is silent.

“Exactly,” Jim says, “I _like_ you, Bones. I’ve never met anyone like you; you make me feel different, you make me feel new, like I’m worth something.”

“You are,” Bones says softly, like he can’t believe Jim doesn’t already know that.

“You make me feel safe.”

“You are safe with me,” Bones says, “dammit, Jim. This isn’t how I thought today would go.”

“I need to go to this bookshop a few blocks away,” Jim suggests, “maybe we can talk some more.”

“I’m dating a book loving prostitute,” Bones scoffs, “Richard Gear has nothing on me.”

“I feel like we’re more True Romance than Pretty Woman,” Jim shrugs.

“Because Alabama is blonde?”

“Because Christian Slater is hot,” Jim smirks.

“You’re unbelievable,” Bones chuckles.

“Nope, this- this is totally believable.”

#

After they leave the bookstore, three new two dollar books to add to Jim’s collection, the pair decides to spend the rest of the evening together. Bones takes him for pizza and they walk around the Plaza like they were meant to on Tuesday. They talk. About the realities of Jim’s childhood and about how he ended up at the _Narada_.

“Fourteen?” Bones frowns, and Jim can see the thinly veiled disgust, “Jim, that’s illegal.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Jim says, “I had to earn my keep.”

“You can’t go back there,” Bones states, “no, you can’t.”

“It’s my home; I don’t _have_ anywhere else to go.”

“You can stay at mine, just until we get you on your feet, we’ll work it out,” Bones says, words rushing out of his mouth.

“This isn’t a movie, Bones,” Jim reminds, “I have obligations, Nyota and Gaila… I can’t just take off.”

“You could call, I still have the number; they’d understand.”

“No,” Jim shakes his head, “it’s not that easy, Bones. What would _we_ do, do you suppose? To get me _on my feet_?”

“Anything,” Bones says, “it has to be better than-”

“Being a prostitute?” Jim finishes, “maybe, or maybe I like being a prostitute.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s easy money,” Jim shrugs, “I just have to lay back an-”

“Stop it,” Bones huffs, “I get it; you don’t have to push me away. You don’t repulse me and talking about it is only going to frustrate us both.”

“You don’t want to hear about my job?” Jim jibes, voice tense, “that’s pretty shitty boyfriend material.”

“Fuck you,” Bones grits out, stopping short and turning from Jim.

“You have to pay for that, Bones,” Jim states, watching the young doctor walk back down the path.

Bones fades into the distance before Jim begins breathing again. He feels a wave of loss and melancholy but it feels like, for once, he’s done the right thing. Bones is free now and Jim can go back to the _Narada_ and try and move on with his life.

#

And he tries really hard, and it might even have worked, if Bones wasn’t standing outside the clinic Wednesday morning when Jim goes to pick up his results.

“I don’t have time for this,” he tells Bones, who just rolls his eyes.

“Very busy man,” Bones says, “yeah I know, but I need to talk to you.”

“About what?” Jim huffs.

“About taking you out to the movies on Saturday,” Bones says.

Jim does a double take, “are you on drugs?”

“No,” Bones scoffs, “I just… I don’t like the way we left things on Friday.”

“I work Saturdays,” Jim says, “I can’t just blow Nero off and tell him I’m going to the movies.”

“Nero?”

“My… ah-”

“Pimp?” Bones questions. “You have a _pimp_?”

“Ah, yeah,” Jim nods. “I don’t just stand on street corners, you know.”

“At least you’d be walking to the beat of your own drum,” Bones counters.

“Whatever I do it’ll be wrong for you, won’t it?” Jim snaps, pulling away from Bones and heading inside the clinic. But Bones follows, close behind, relentless.

“Jim, please,” he calls, “that’s not what I meant. Tuesday’s you’re day off, right?”

“Right.”

“We could do Tuesday then,” Bones says, “if you wanted to.”

“Why are you _trying_ so hard?” Jim questions.

“Because I like you.”

“Let me get my results,” Jim says with a sigh, Bones moves to follow him but Jim raises his hands, “wait here.”

He’s scared. Terrified even. He rarely thinks about his sexual health, it’s just collateral, what has he got to keep safe for anyway. _You_ , he can hear Bones’ voice in his head. He’s never thought about it like that; he’s a stupid kid who doesn’t know better. Shouldn’t have to. In his dreams he opens the envelope and sees _HIV: positive_ and he wakes up feeling weak and wanting to cry. He’s been so _stupid_ , letting Nero’s clients fuck him unprotected. He could have anything. _Everything_. He could die before he reaches thirty and all because he was scared to face walking out and living his own life. How backwards is that?

The nurse, the same pretty blonde from his last visit, smiles and hands him a brown envelope before she bustles away to another patient.

His hands shake.

He reads the first page, the generic letter telling him how to move forward depending on the results and where to go for sexual health treatment and how to conduct better sexual health safety for the future. _Condoms_ , he thinks, _always, from here on out_. 

His results are all negative. He can barely breathe. He feels like he’s been caught when he was falling, just before he hit the ground.

Jim’s eighteen and he’s just been handed a second chance.

“I’m clean,” he says to Bones; he wants to be held. He needs the touch of another person to let him know this is real, to let him know he’s not dreaming. Bones must see the vulnerability written into every inch of his body because he pulls the younger man into his arms.

“You have to be careful from now on,” Bones murmurs, face pressed into the crook of Jim’s neck before pulling back and looking into Jim’s eyes, “promise me.”

“I will,” Jim nods, but Bones pulls him close again and the movement is restricted by Bones’ jaw pressed against Jim’s temple.

“Please don’t go back there,” Bones says, “please.”

“It’s not that simple,” Jim counters, raising his hand to cup Bones’ jaw. “Would we even work? Will you ever really trust me? Are you gonna see me as a whore for the rest of my life?”

“Of course not,” Bones huffs, “I’m worried about you, Jim, anything could happen to you. Just because you’ve been lucky so far doesn’t mean you won’t get a scumbag in there that guts you open. I just- I worry.”

“I know,” Jim sighs, “but I don’t have anything to fall back on.”

“You’re smart, Jim, you could take classes or get a job-”

“I don’t even have a high school diploma, Bones, I can’t just walk in and get a job. I have no experience, no money, no references…” Jim sighs. “This is all I have.”

“You’re worth more than this,” Bones whispers.

“We won’t work, Bones,” Jim says, “we’re just not right for each other.”

“I don’t believe that,” Bones shakes his head, “we’ve hit a brick wall with this, sure, but that doesn’t mean I can just turn off what I’m feelin’.”

“I know,” Jim admits, “I tried, it’s hard, it’s gonna be hard. But I’m no good for you, Bones. You deserve someone who isn’t so screwed up.”

“I don’t _deserve_ anything; I’m not entitled to you or anyone else, but I _want_ you, Jim. I know that for sure,” Bones says plainly, without pretence or agenda and Jim thinks he might fall a little bit in love. Bones doesn’t see the commerce of relationships, he sees passion and friendship; he sees Jim as a smart-ass blonde who can’t keep his mouth shut and he accepts it. Doesn’t try and barter, doesn’t ask for a refund.

Bones wants Jim to be safe and happy. Sure, Jim knows, he’d like it a whole bunch more if Jim wasn’t a hooker but when life gives to lemons…

Jim doesn’t know how to make lemonade.

But Bones thinks he does, Jim can see that much clearly. And he knows the doctor-in-training is really going to try.

“You’re dating a prostitute, Bones,” Jim murmurs, “for now at least. Can you handle that?”

“Honestly? When I think of someone else getting to kiss you and hold you and…,”he swallows, “it makes me jealous, Jim, and angry. I was outta my mind the other night thinkin’ up scenarios, playing them out in my head… But I wasn’t lying when I said I want you.”

Jim’s at a loss for words, his hand is still on Bones’ jaw and their faces are so close. Jim leans in; feeling encouraged when Bones doesn’t pull away and lets Jim press their lips together. Bones’ hands find Jim’s hips and they get incrementally closer, flush against each other. Jim’s never been kissed like this before, clean and wholesome. It’s yellow like the sunshine, like Bones. Not garish reds and slutty purples. It’s not bruises and grazed flesh. Bones’ kisses are sweet, even when their mouths open and Jim is met with the wet warmth of tongue.

Jim blushes when they finally part, Bones looks pleased. He likes surprising Jim... showing Jim the way it could be.  

“So, a movie on Tuesday?” Jim wonders, shyly looking away from Bones.

“Yeah,” Bones says, guiding Jim’s face back to his, two fingers gentle on Jim’s jaw. “If you want?”

“I do,” Jim nods.

“Well that’s settled then,” Bones smiles, “a movie, on Tuesday.”


End file.
